


Six Fucking Years

by FrangipaniFlower, Zeffy



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Fun, Light Bondage, Romance, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 10:36:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9544019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrangipaniFlower/pseuds/FrangipaniFlower, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeffy/pseuds/Zeffy
Summary: Carrie and Quinn are friends, very good friends. Carrie is currently seeing a life coach and he told her to write a fic with romance and sex. Lots of sex. She's asking Quinn for help.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SNQA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SNQA/gifts).



> This is the same AU as Laure001’s wonderful post S5 New York fics, “Inconvenient Truth” among them. Carrie and Quinn live in New York and are very good friends two years after she brought him to NYC. The letter hasn’t been addressed yet and Carrie is currently being advised by Adrian, her “life coach”. He gave her a special assignment and Carrie being Carrie relies on Quinn to help her.

Carrie puts the sheets of papers down – yes, she printed that thing and put it neatly in her notebook, and looks at Quinn expectantly.

“So? What do you think?”

At least ten seconds pass. Quinn is staring at her, mouth slightly agape.

“What is… this? Exactly?" he ends up asking.

"Oh, it’s my assignment. Well, the first part. So? It's well written, right? It's romantic, right?"

"It's..."

"What?"

"Unexpected,” he manages.

"Unexpected?" Just a little Carrie-annoyance is in her voice. She’s reining it in, he knows it. She does that sometimes when she wants something. So he’s treading carefully now.

"What exactly is this assignment, Carrie? And why is there a character named Quinn in it?"

"Oh, don't worry about that, Quinn."

"I'm worrying. Just a… little."

“He’s the male lead.”

“I got that.”

“Hey, I named a character in my fic after you. That's an honor. Like… godfathering a child.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

“God, Quinn, it's not like the guy is getting shot or gassed or gets killed in twenty other equally horrific ways. It's a good story. I mean, the guy, Quinn, he has a good time.”

“And the female lead’s name?”

“Guess.”

“No.”

“Oh c’mon,” Carrie actually pouts, “sometimes you are such a spoilsport. It's Carrie, of course.”

“Of course. Now let me see the whole thing.”

“Not if you’re being grumpy.”

“I’m not grumpy. You asked me for help, so I need to read it. Give it to me.”

Carrie hands him her notebook, only slightly hesitating, then looks at him expectantly.

“Reading will take a few minutes.”

“Yes. So read.”

“Not while you stare at me.”

“I know you’re getting old. You  furrow your brow when you are reading. You might need glasses at some point. So, I know that already. So read. I can look where I want.”

So he casts a long glance towards her, furrows his brow and starts reading.

 

_It was a moment when the planet stopped spinning: they bumped into each other near the coffee machine and the spark flared between them. He quickly engulfed her mouth with his lips. Slowly licked the area until she opened her lips in response. His tongue found its way inside, acting on its own. He probed everything he could reach in this wet warm place. She liked it. After a second of hesitation, he shoved his tongue deeper in her throat._

_“Ah,” she said._

_He took a break to kiss her cheek, nose and eye._

_Half of her face was wet with his saliva, and she was sure he will do the same with her neck._

_She quickly felt aroused._

_“Let's have sex now,” she said._

_“Ok, why not?” he answered, eating her with his eyes._

Carrie is watching Quinn expectantly while he is reading. He doesn't give away even a tiny hint of emotion. He raises his eyes from the paper, looking at her, pressing his lips together.

“Now what?” she asks.

“I think we need to talk, seriously.”

His tone is still perfectly neutral, but she already knows he is laughing at her. In the next moment she gets angry.

“Can't you just stop your whole stoic act and get to the point?”

“Do you like it when a guy licks your face?”

“Um, no, but…”

“Because it’s disgusting.”

“Don’t be so opinionated. You know, I read these writing tutorials and…”

“Writing tutorials?”

“Yeah, you know, the ones that tell you how to write romance and sex.”

“And they say that women like to be slobbered over? They say that’s hot?”

“God, not when you phrase it like that… They say that wet hot kisses are sexy.”

“Ah, now I see where the wet warm place line comes from.”

“But it's hot, admit it!”

“No, just… warm.”

“You are awful.”

“Maybe. But not as much as that Quinn in your little story.”

Carrie sighs.

“Fine. Anything else you want to criticize?”

“Ok. Let's see… I’m going to skip some of the more disastrous things and focus on my next favorite line: ‘he shoved his tongue deeper in her throat.’” He doesn't try to suppress his laughter any more. “I… don't even know what to say.”

“You are so useless! Obviously you don't know shit. You know what my article says about writing a kiss?”

“Can't wait to hear it, Carrie.”

“Well, there are stages. First, a connection moment. Their lips touch. Then they open their mouths and the kiss deepens. Then the tongue action begins. You know, tongues fighting for dominance. Very sexy… Quinn?”

Quinn is bent over on the couch and he can't answer, but the glaze over his eyes and odd choking noises give the silent laughter away.

“What's that about?”

“S...sorry, Carrie, I can't…”

“Oh, I'm glad to discover a cheerful side of you. Too bad it's me you are making fun of.”

“I know it's rude. Sorry. But… tongues fighting for dominance? Really Carrie?”

Carrie can't help but smile, although she quickly hides it - she can't lose the argument.

“Yes, you know, it's very symbolic, they are about to enter a new stage of their relationship and they need to figure out who is in charge…”

“So I guess your guy won here.”

“It's… not that simple.”

“Fucking come on, his tongue down her throat and she's happy with it. How did she manage to say anything this way?”

“I regret that I shared my task with you like a thousand times already. You are a horrible friend. And person.”

She's annoyed. And sad. And she's going to leave - she takes her purse and her coat and…

“Carrie, stop. Right. You are right. I'm sorry. I was being an asshole. I want to help you, really.”

She stops, almost at the door.

“Ok. But this time be constructive.”

She puts her things back on the chair, goes to the kitchen, pours herself a glass of water.

“Thing is, Carrie, I don’t think your story is romantic. Or emotional. It's a technical description of the process.”

“But there's a spark! Doesn't it count?”

“But they bump into each other near the coffee machine. What if they didn't? No spark then?”

“Ok, fine. The spark was always there. What changes?”

“You need to explain that your characters, Carrie and Quinn, wanted each other for how long? Three hours? Or maybe two days? Or longer?” and when Carrie is nodding enthusiastically he goes on, “that's very interesting…”

“All fiction, of course. We are nothing like that.”

“Right, right. So, you know, in a story, something big and dramatic should happen so that these fictional characters give in and, let's say, love each other to the point of complete exhaustion.”

“Dramatic? Like what?”

“I don't know. Danger. A matter of life and death. A near miss. Or the opposite, a very romantic situation they find themselves in. Not bumping into each other in the kitchen.”

“Ugh. So complicated. Can't they just do it?”

“Ok, even if they suddenly are all over each other without any reason, you can at least make it more... heartfelt. Focusing on the mood, sensations and stuff like that.”

“Sensations.”

“Exactly.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“My point is, what do you usually feel during the kiss? Can you write it down?”

“What do I feel… I don't know! That I want the guy?”

“Ok, good start. What else?”

“Will we fuck right there or make it to the bed?”

“Jesus Christ, Carrie.”

“What else am I supposed to think of? You know what? I don't really _think_ in those moments, I just act.”

“I was talking about your emotions.”

“I’m not that into emotions. The kiss is just an indicator that you are going to have sex, right? Just to set the mood.”

“Carrie, it makes me think the guys you’ve kissed just weren’t all that great.”

“Huh? The guys? The guys were awesome, for your information.”

“They engulfed your mouth with theirs, for fuck sake.”

“You’re starting again. The asshole thing. And… and you know what? I’ve got an idea. Let's do it!”

“Do what?”

“You said you want to help, didn't you?”

“Yeah, so?”

“So, go for it. Kiss me. I will feel something. And take notes.”

“...”

“Come on Quinn, stop looking at me like that. We’re friends, right? Friends help each other, right?”

“I’m… not sure I… would do that for any of my friends though.”

“Let's hope others won't ask.”

Quinn hesitates, visibly conflicted.

“Come on, you can't just chicken out after that, ‘all your guys are crap, I’m awesome,’ speech.”

“I didn't say that.”

“Sure, whatever. But, getting back to my assignment. I need to fix it. You know I'm not seeing anyone right now. I don't think it's right to pick up a random guy… not that I’ve never done that, but it will be too complicated to explain when I take notes… but, you, on the other hand,...”

“Fine, fine, I’ll help you.”

“I appreciate your sacrifice.”

“Yeah. You're welcome.”

“Shall we begin?”

Quinn comes closer. He looks at Carrie, and takes one last step towards her. He is not hesitant or confused any more. He’s confident, in fact, and Carrie wants to crack a joke about his sassy smug self-assurance but before she can come up with anything he says, “don't forget to take notes,” and kisses her.

Carrie doesn't take notes. Instead, she finds herself some unknown amount of time later in Quinn's arms, pressed to a kitchen wall, totally out of breath and she doesn't know how it happened.

She is slightly embarrassed. While Quinn… he’s not confident any more. He seems… confused, and for a second he looks utterly overwhelmed.

But a moment later he is cool again, asking something about her notebook and what she'll write and Carrie wonders if she misinterpreted what she saw.

“You know, I was distracted, I’m sorry, can we please do it again?”

“Oh, apparently I’m not that bad then?”

“God. Men… Know what? Forget that. I’ll write something. Can we move on to discuss the sexy stuff?”

“You mean, that porn from hell? Worst smut ever written?”

"You're fucking enjoying yourself, huh? As if you were a candidate for the National Book Award yourself."

"I’m pretty sure porn isn’t an actual category there."

Carrie hates him that moment, real hot white burning hate, because he is so smug, so fucking calm, leaning back and looking at her with an amused sparkle in his eyes.

"It's not porn. It's romance."

"Sure. A romantic dick drilling in a romantic cunt, romantically squirting. Just out of nothing. Doesn't happen. Squirting's rare... if it's even real. Some people say it’s just urine."

"You. Are. An. Asshole. What's your fucking expertise here? You don't even write shopping lists."

"As if writing a shopping list qualifies you as author. Walmart would be full with book award aspirants any given Saturday then. But I call them soccer moms."

"Who knows? Maybe they write great romance as a pastime. Hey, maybe that's what they do on their phones all the time."

"Well, maybe. Thing is, whatever they write, yours is still porn. Ridiculous porn."

"So suddenly you are an expert in porn?"

Carrie doesn't know why she's suddenly so agitated, neither does Quinn, but she won't let go, that's for sure.

"Nope. Let's just say I know it when I see it. This sentence here for instance - ‘And with that he forcefully pushed his penis into her and leaned over to kiss her as he thrust into her vagina, her resistance weakened, until she shattered completely.’"

"What's wrong with that? It's passion."

"It's rape. And ridiculous. Which is a category in and of itself. There is no such thing as magically weakening vaginas."

"Says the expert."

"Yes, says the expert. Believe me in this, Carrie, cause I've been in more vaginas than you."

If he hadn't sipped his coffee at that moment Carrie would think… she can't put her finger on it, and then the moment is gone.

"It's a draft. I'll edit that passage. But the rest is good. Hot and romantic."

"Ridiculous and anatomically not possible."

"Yeah. Of course. It's easy for you. Leaning back, sipping coffee, maybe some snacks? Peanuts? Olives? Popcorn? And then judging. First it's porn, then it's ridiculous, and now it's anatomically not possible. You are an awful friend."

"I'm just trying to spare you the disgrace. Your coach won't be pleased with your exercise."

"Give me examples."

"I’d have to re-read it then. Which is torture."

"Fucking c’mon. Can we agree on not using the word torture here?."

He looks at her for a long moment, wondering why he's still here, why he still can't shake her off. And then she reaches out over the table and squeezes his hand and gives him a smile, a special one, and he remembers the moment he saw that smile for the first time, in the hospital, the moment he opened his eyes for what felt like the first time.

Her eyes had been swimming in tears back then, but she smiled, open and beautiful. Like she does now, but with a bit of sadness. Sometimes he wonders how she does this: just the moment before he is about to get up and walk away for real, she's all in and makes leaving impossible.

"Please Quinn. I need to finish this."

He sighs and takes her notebook.

"Do you have a pencil? I'd like to mark my favorites."

As he reads, she watches him, sipping her coffee. She gets herself a fresh mug. The lines on his forehead are deeper these days. He cups his chin in his hand and not for the first time she's stunned by the size of his hands. Assassin hands. He still could do it, she thinks. The neural damage is minimal, and sometimes she thinks his accountant will learn soon enough what it means to work for a former Black-Ops soldier.

Over her musings she nearly misses Quinn choking and spitting his coffee. Her notebook not only has a lot, A LOT, of highlighted sentences but some coffee stains now.

"Quinn!"

"Sorry. Carrie. Really. I mean. You can't… you just can't..."

"What?"

"He pinched her hard nipples between his fingers, rubbing them, pulling them out and letting them snap back into place."

Quinn nearly can't finish the sentence he is laughing so hard.

Carrie watches him with averted eyes.

"What?"

"What? You're asking what? God, Carrie..."

"Most girls love nipple play."

"Yeah, no shit they do. But, wait, let me quote, 'pulling them out and letting them SNAP.’” Then, Quinn, the fucker, snaps with his fingers to make the matching sound. “Back to place? Like a catapult?"

"Some girls like it rough. It can be hot."

"Sure. No opposition there. Pinching, grating teeth, maybe biting. But believe me, real suckers for pain are rare. And even those… let's just say it requires some more skills than just SNAP."

"Which you clearly have."

Quinn doesn't answer but returns to his reading. He makes it five lines further before chuckling again.

"Oh, Carrie… I'm sorry… that happened?"

"What?"

"He said he wished he'd been the one popping your cherry?"

“Who is 'he'?"

"The, ehm, male lead in your story."

"He has a name."

"Yes. But as it happens to be my name, I refuse to use it. And as your story has no threesomes you know perfectly well whom I am talking about. So who said that?"

"Quinn's not your legal name, is it?"

"It's my last name, as you know."

"But not your legal name. Why don't I know your legal name?"

"Why don't I know who said that pop the cherry line?"

"Nobody said it."

"C'mon Carrie. Not even you could come up with such a freaking fantasy. I'm helping you here. You gotta give me something. Who?"

"The fuck. Jonas."

Quinn sobers up immediately.

"Right. You found that hot?"

"C'mon, Quinn. You know how those things work. It was kind of hot in the moment. Although looking back... well… maybe not so much."

It's a rare moment between them, looking at each other and sharing a genuine chuckle. Quinn knows what Jonas did to her. Her one shot at normalcy, doomed from the beginning, which she knows too. And he knows how much that moron hurt her in those last days of their relationship, back in Berlin.

On good days he thinks that's one of the reasons why she still can't open up, not even to him.

"You know what? I'll delete that sentence."

"Good idea."

"What else?"

"Wait."

It lasts a good minute and then Quinn put the notebook on the table.

"Carrie, your narrative angle doesn't work here."

"My what?"

"Your narrator's position."

"Well, at the bottom of that page, if I recall correctly, my position is on my knees and y-, ehm - how did you phrase it? - the male lead is fucking m-, well, the object of his desire from behind. It's pretty clear, the position."

"No. Not that position. Let's call it the climax of your story. That sentence here," he looks down, clears his throat, and reads to her, "’together they came while Carrie was still trapped in a string of orgasms. They cried out together, holding onto one and other as the pleasure fell back down to a more manageable level.’"

"What's wrong with that? Sounds like a great orgasm to me. Q-, the guy I mean, he gave her orgasm heaven.”

"At a manageable level. Sure, sounds like a few seconds in paradise. But that's not my point."

"What is your fucking point then?"

"Together they - so two people - came while she - the third person - was still caught in a string of orgasms."

Carrie smiles, proudly even.

"I said it's hot. Even you have to admit that. C'mon, multiple orgasms are hot. Admit it. Guys are proud then. When they notice, that is. Do you notice? Or are you one of those guys just focusing on their own-" she stops as she sees the look on his face. She has no idea why he is looking so - tired. Sad? Just for a moment, then his amused look returns. Smug bastard.

"Carrie, either they come together or she is caught in a string of orgasms. You have to decide. The way you wrote it, it's a threesome. She's caught in her multiple-orgasm-chain -"

"String."

"Whatever. And the guy and the third person are coming together. At manageable level. Sounds like pure frenzy. So, is it a threesome? How come the third person hadn't had any action before? Male or female by the way? Cause I'm absolutely not into guys. Whereas -"

"Fuck, Quinn. This is not funny. It took me a long time to write. And now you are nitpicking instead of valuing the greater narrative."

"Your greater narrative. Right. Which is? Any kind of character development in here? Wait, let me see. Could you brew more coffee while I read and search for the greater narrative?"

Carrie slaps the back of his head but still takes his cup and gets up. She misses Quinn palming his face and letting a deep sigh when she busies herself with the coffee machine.

Her eyes wander while she waits for the machine to heat up. Although Quinn is not much of an interior designer his place is nice. Not much furniture but tasteful. Light colours, some blue and grey cushions, his desk behind a Chinese wall, a low coffee table, some Bauhaus, two chairs designed by a Danish dead guy he likes - she always forgets the name. The kitchen area is more colourful as he collects Franny's paintings there. He has plenty, all taped to his cabinets and pinned to the fridge.

Two photographs are there too. One of her and Franny, last Christmas. One of the three of them. They'd been to the zoo and hadn't even noticed there was someone taking photos but Franny spotted the photo booth near the exit and had gone to see if there was a photo of them too. And obviously there was. Franny between them, holding hands with both of them, all of them smiling. It was a beautiful day. This summer, just a few weeks ago. Quinn bought the photo for Franny. And, well, apparently he'd bought a second one.

"Coffee ready yet?"

"Coming."

"Good. Because we have a real problem here. This is anatomically not possible."

"I'm flexible. Years of yoga."

"You maybe. The guy's dick not so much."

"What?"

"Let's just say, there are only so many angles one can master without erectile tissue damage."

"Use your imagination."

"Better not. I don't wanna imagine how much that would hurt."

"Which passage are you talking about?"

He briefly considers saying "yours" but swallows it.

Discussing porn fiction from Carrie's diary, with Carrie, God almighty.

"This one here. Wall sex. When she is, wait, ‘speared on his throbbing member.’ It's not a social club, Carrie. The UN has member states. It’s a dick, a prick, or a penis. But it’s not a member."

"I like it."

"Yeah, well, you wrote it. But more importantly, it's not possible."

"What? You’ve never had wall sex? It's fun. You should try it some time."

"Yeah, Carrie, I know. In my humble opinion it's overrated. But what you wrote here doesn't work."

"Of course it works."

"No. At least as long your heroine has no floating balloons tied to her wrists and ankles. It would just fucking hurt."

"Mind sharing your wisdom, sex god?"

Great, she is pissed now. So is he.

"Get up. Stand over there."

If Carrie's startled by the change of mood she is good at hiding it.

Quinn directs her back to the wall and looms in front of her. He looks down at her for a long second and then suddenly grabs her buttocks and lifts her up.

"Quinn. Take your hands off my ass."

"I can't. If I do, you'll fall down."

He is very close now. She feels the warmth of his body, smells his cologne, and there is the firm pressure of his large hands squeezing her ass. Which is absolutely not their usual repertoire.

Quinn fucks nurses. Or maybe avatars. Carrie doesn't know, he never mentions his dates. And Carrie… Carrie had some more or less unpleasant attempts. But somehow it never feels right. Especially not when it's Quinn who is babysitting Franny when she's having a so called business dinner.

"Quinn. That's… you're not supposed… that's not what I wrote."

"No, Carrie. That's not what you wrote. You wrote about pinning wrists above her head and greedily massaging her breasts. Which is difficult at the same time. But during wall sex... it just doesn't work that way. It's either my hands on your ass or your legs around my ass. Or, preferably both."

"Says the master of what? Kama Sutra?"

"Because if I let go, you'll..."

He lets go and she plops on the floor. And the fucking asshole is smirking.

"And even worse: If I'd been inside of you that would've hurt me - my throbbing member - too. So remember, no wall sex with wrists pinned above her head while massaging her breasts. There needs to be some basic security."

He offers her a hand and helps her up.

"That fucking hurt, Quinn," she's rubbing her ass and he has to look away. Those tight jeans she wears on weekends...

"Quinn? Quinn?! Hellooooo?"

"Uhm, yeah, what? You okay?"

"Yeah. Brand-fucking-new. Why did you underline this whole passage?" she asks while pointing to the second last page of her assignment.

"It's minor, compared to the last one."

"So you believe me that I could get my legs up and over your shoulders?"

"Yeah. Sure, Carrie."

"What then?"

"This here, it's just...it's the final paragraph of your story."

"Yeah, the hottest sex scene, romantic, passionate, consuming, inconvenient - all that. That's why I saved it for the very end."

"After the wall sex."

"They change positions and do it again."

"How old is the guy?"

"Forty-something."

"He'll need at least twenty minutes."

Carrie stares at him for a moment too long before she answers.

"Well, I can come up with something for in between."

"Yeah, like calling an ambulance and bringing the guy to a urologist."

"Fucking fine. I'll edit. She'll use a dildo instead because he is such a wimp. What about that last passage?"

Quinn leans back with a sigh and feels… strange.

"You know what? Read it to me."

"No, I'm no pervert."

"Yeah, but I am, or what? You made me read and discuss four pages of… whatever… so now read it."

"’Her pussy was amazing, even better than her mouth, scorching hot and slick and tight.’" It is something altogether different to read it loud, Carrie thinks, suddenly not feeling well. "’He hooked his arms under her knees, pushing them back until her pretty bare feet were above her shoulders. She clung to him as he slammed into her cunt. Wailing her pleasure, his moans and growls mix with her beautiful noise. She was always loud in bed and he loved it.’"

"And?"

"What ‘and’? That's it."

"Exactly. That is the problem."

"Why?"

"She's loud and tight. Oh, and hot."

"Yeah. That's what it says."

"So this is the big emotional finale of your story."

"Yes."

"It's crap Carrie. Horseshit. Donald Trump in smut-horseshit. Those two are having sex. Exchanging body fluids. Licking, sucking, fucking. And this is what they get in the end? A technical description which reads like a ‘how to do it in a car’ guidebook? With some of the worst clichés ever?"

"What is it to you, anyway? Stop yelling at me."

"They deserve more."

"More?"

"Better sex. Or more emotions."

"I'm good at sex."

"Well, one might doubt that, reading this. When's the last time you got laid?"

"Quinn."

"C'mon. When's the last time you fucked?”  
  
"It's been a while. You?"

"We are not discussing my sex life."

"So you don't have one."

"I do have one. I -"

"When? Who? The redhead?"

"..."

"Or that nurse at the PT clinic?"

"..."

"No, I know. That model. The one who hired you for the new alarm system of her new apartment. Tell me, in real life, without the photoshopping, she’s not as hot right...?"

"Carrie."

"Well. Doesn't matter now."

She's lying. It does matter. She's dying to know. Because whenever she calls him he's available. Just not on Tuesdays after five. He must be seeing someone.

I mean, look at him.

"So, I'll do those few edits and then I'm done. Pizza tonight? Or shall we go and see a movie? The nanny's staying, so we can even get drunk."

"Carrie - you don't get it. You can't save that thing with a few edits. If you ask me you should consider rewriting."

"I need help then. What do you suggest? It’s due Monday."

"Can't you just drop it? I mean you are paying that shr-, ehm, life coach. Just don’t show up. Or fire him."

"No. It's complicated."

"Of course it is."

Quinn's looking at Carrie with his usual expression, a bit amused although she thinks she sees some genuine warmth. She’s gotten used to the warmth over the last two years.

"The thing is - I've been to so many therapy sessions in my life, and nothing helped. And now I am feeling good, for quite a long time actually. So I think I should trust his recommendations. Because it's nice not to be a neurotic mess for once."

Quinn hates it when she degrades herself. While he knows that her sense of self worth is ridiculously low it always hits him hard when she makes comments like this.

"You were never a neurotic mess."

Carrie doesn't answer but breaks eye contact. And so he gives in. He always does.

"Fucking fine. I'll help you. But drinks are on you. And dinner. And not just pizza."

"Whatever you want. I'll order anything."

"No. You don't order. We write that story and then you take me out."

"In jeans and a T-shirt?"

"I'll buy you a new dress on the way."

"Fine. Deal. The dress is gonna be more expensive than dinner though, but your choice. How do we start?"

"You tell me your story with your own words."

"You read my words."

"Your own words. Not some guidebook-like descriptions. Tell me what you wanna say."

"Well, they meet, at the coffee machine and then they have sex."

"A one night stand? As start of a longer affair? Or are their feelings involved?"

"Don't know. I mean, I was supposed to write a hot romantic sex scene. Not a marriage proposal. They’ve known each other for a while. But people do have sex without considering the consequences."

"Yeah. I’ve heard about that before."

"So?"

"You tell me. Your story. You’re the boss. Romance might include a bit more involvement than a one night stand. Where's the coffee machine?"

"Where it always is. In your kitchen."

Quinn looks puzzled, just for a second.

"Not my coffee machine. The coffee machine in your story."

"Well… the character's named Quinn… so..."

She has the decency to look at least a bit sheepish.

"Sure. My coffee machine. My kitchen. Fine."

"I suck at descriptions. Actually that is a thing. It even has a name. Which I forget. But it's so much easier to use tiny bits from real life compared to making up a whole universe from scratch."

"So my kitchen is your universe."

"Yeah."

“Fine. How did she get there? Why is she there?”

“Uhm… maybe they’re colleagues?”

“And bump into each other in his kitchen?”

“They could work late at his place and eat take out and then they want coffee.”

“Fine. Coffee. So instead of bumping into each other, which is a bit difficult in a kitchenette, how about - “

“Get your lazy ass to the coffee machine.”

“What?”

“Quinn, get up. You're no literature god either, so you show me what you have in mind and I’ll write it down.”

Quinn looks at her, puzzled, but she's serious. Even furrows her brow and looks at him like he is an insect she’ll examine under a microscope.

“I want another coffee anyway,” she adds.

“You’ve already had, dunno, five.”

“Stop patronizing and start the machine.”

“You do it.”

“Why?”

“Start the fucking coffee machine, Carrie.”

Suddenly… Carrie can't really put a finger on it… but something changes. He gets up and leans casually against the door jamb but his eyes are… darker.

So she gets up, slides past him and goes to the coffee machine but as she is about to press the button she feels a swift movement behind her back and there he is. His hand reaches out for the same button and comes to rest on her hand. His body is just millimeters away from her but their hands are the only connection.

“So he touches her hand. Great,” she manages and is pissed about her voice being a little unstable.

“If she's interested, this would be a great moment to let him know,” Quinn replies dryly.

Carries hesitates for a brief second but then abruptly turns around so they are facing each other. Without shoes she’s even smaller and has to look up to him while she puts her palm on his chest.

He wonders if the hand is to push him away or to make a connection.

But when she raises her head to look at him he leans in and kisses her, careful and restrained, breaking away after a short moment.

“How about starting like this?”

“Too restrained for the rest of my story.”

She's still standing there with her hand on his chest, her mouth inches away from his, and she knows he will kiss her again and feels a rush of excitement when he closes the distance.

This kiss is not careful, not restrained and certainly not chaste.

It's a great kiss, Carrie has to admit. Urgent but passionate, not too wet - she hates drooling kisses, actually - and he doesn't do that. And there’s no fighting for dominance. He is probing and takes her cues and she parts her lips deliberately because she wants it and not because he pushes his tongue into her mouth.

“Wait. Quinn. Wait. I need to write that down.”

She breaks away and searches for her notebook, bending over his coffee table in her tight jeans and damn it, he needs to adjust his pants.

Carrie comes back with the notebook and puts it next to the coffee machine.

“Where were we?”

“What?”

“Quinn, they kissed. Without bumping into each other. Hand touching was a great idea. Very subtle. And now? What's next?”

“I don't know. You’re the boss. Your story.”

“You read my story and said it needs some basic repair. So, your ideas please.”

She's standing right in front of him, looking expectantly. She leans up and kisses him. This time they don't stop - she already took the notes about kissing - and the kiss keeps going while his hands gently touch her neck, her shoulder, then her clavicle while her hands untuck his shirt. And it's then, as if he's been waiting for her permission, that one hand casually trails down her rib cage and she feels a tantalizing touch at the side of her breast, then up again as he hesitates for a brief moment before his hand finally cups her breast.

He feels her hands sneaking under his shirt, her open palm touching his skin, feels her breast beneath his hand, and then she breaks the kiss, sighs, and turns away.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Carrie’s a little unstable on her legs. Damn, the man knows how to kiss, but she has to take her notes. She can do this. Focus, concentrate, evaluate and write it down.

When she puts the pen down, Quinn is not standing next to the coffee machine anymore. He leans against the opposite wall and she allows herself a moment to look at him. Long lean limbs, slender, but broader shoulders these days, his dark hair a little longer - she still remembers the scar after his surgery - and blue eyes, very dark now.

And so they kiss again. And hands wander to the right places. Names are whispered, moans and sighs are uttered, and if they were able to talk to each other they could have the most pleasant night ahead them.

But - they don't talk. They kiss and they grope and caress and explore and Carrie takes notes - but they don't talk.

So when they are on the couch for quite a while, and a kiss keeps going while hands are roaming along backs and waistlines and brushing over nipples, and Carrie turns away to scribble notes for the fourth or fifth time - or was it the sixth time, who keeps track anyway - she turns around again but Quinn just gets up and begins tucking in his shirt.

Carrie doesn't know what to say.

It's like she's coming back from another reality. A reality where she was just about to fuck her best friend. And who would want that anyway? Really, sex with Quinn? She just needed to get some help with her assignment, didn't she?

Quinn gives her a small smile, one of those that don't reach the eyes.

“How about dinner?”

“Now?”

“Now.”

“Uh, sure. I said it's on me, didn't I? So what do you want, Quinn? I’d even agree to Indian.”

“Good. There’s a new place in Tribeca.”

“You’ve been there?”

“I did the security system.”

“Is it posh?”

“It is. You’re paying.”

This time he grins amused.

“I know. I keep my word. Question is - do you stick to yours, Quinn?”

She's glad they can retreat to their usual banter.

“Huh?”

“Jeans. T-Shirt. Playground outfit.”

“I said I’ll get you a new dress. So c’mon, I’ll get us a car.”

“A real dress. None of this hipster Tribeca stuff.”

Carrie takes a moment in the bathroom, sorting her hair and refreshing her light makeup, wondering what's next. But Quinn's apparently in charge now and she realizes she feels comfortable with it.

He takes her to a small shop in Tribeca, another one of his clients, she assumes, but has to challenge him anyway.

“Nice Quinn. Did the model give you pointers on fashion in her spare time?”

He just casts a side glance and opens the door for her.

“No, she’s too tall.”

It's clearly a Scandinavian-inspired place, whitewashed walls, and Carrie recognizes some of the Danish furniture he likes and the owner has a distinctive accent - and is very pleased to see Quinn.

That's still new, even after two years in New York and in their new lives, she’s always caught by surprise when watching Quinn interact with people who know and like him. No assets, no colleagues, no shady business, just normal people, being friendly and genuinely pleased to see their competent security specialist again.

The shop owner, Christina, even kisses him on both cheeks and then turns to Carrie with a broad smile.

“You must be Franny’s mom,” and at Carrie’s quizzical glance, “you have her eyes. Peter brought her here once when you had to work late and he had to set up the new system. They grow so fast. Mine are fourteen and twelve now. Franny played with Cody. That's him.”

She points to the white fluffy dog who lies curled into a ball in a corner.

“So what can I get for you? Would you care see the new collection?”

Carrie sees Quinn settling in a armchair, stretching his legs in front of him and taking one of the magazines from the coffee table, leaning back and starting to read with a clearly amused expression on his face. He likes having the upper hand.

The thing is, she likes him taking charge too.

She follows Christina to the display with the newest collection, sheath dresses in plain colours like sand, white and dark blue, light woolen shirts in the same colours and matching pants and skirts. The fabrics, wool with silk or cotton, feel cool and soothing and when Christina hands her a blue sheath dress with a boat neckline she's realizes she’s actually looking forward to dressing up.

He’s there when she steps out of the changing room, about to ask Christina for help with closing the zipper.

“I’ll do that,” he says, when he sees her eyes going towards Christina, and moves behind her. He puts a hand on her shoulder, the other closes the zipper and their eyes meet briefly in the mirror.

It's a warm feeling she has when looking at him. He steps back but continues to gaze at her in the mirror.

“You look beautiful. It matches your eyes,” Christina says.

“We’ll take it,” is Quinn’s simple answer, “she’ll keep it on.”

"Oh, you’re wearing it out? Do you need a pair of heels?” Christina asks, eyeing Carrie’s faded black ballet flats. “No, those definitely won’t do. Let me check what I have. I just got a new delivery and-.”

“She needs shoes,” Quinn answers from his chair. Christina smiles and nods, turning to Carrie, “what’s your size?”

“Seven - but, no - I don’t need-”

“Give me five minutes,” Christina says before disappearing through a side door.

“Quinn, my flats are just fine, I don’t think-”

“Carrie, sit down,” Quinn says, indicating a chair opposite him.

She obeys, and he reaches down and gently grasps one ankle, and then the other, removing her shoes. “No, listen, nobody will look at my feet anyway. I don’t think I need- Quinn, why are you staring at my toes?”

Quinn, still holding her right foot, seemingly mesmerized, looks up, “they’re fucking red,” he says as he shifts in his chair.

Carrie’s head rears back slightly. “Quinn, since when do you have a foot fetish?”

Quinn pointedly looks down at her toes and back to her.

"Me? No." But she sees him swallow as he puts her foot back down.

“Voila!” Christina exclaims as she enters and sets down three boxes beside Carrie, removing the tops and revealing strappy sandals in taupe, silver and black.

Quinn surprises both women by immediately reaching for the silver heels. “She’ll try these.”

Christina’s eyes dart between the couple, clearly charmed, as she crouches down preparing to help Carrie put them on. But she freezes when Quinn says. “I’ve got this.”

“Okaaay,” Christina chuckles and excuses herself. “I’m going to go fold some scarves.”

Quinn fumbles a bit with the small buckle on the ankle strap as Carrie watches him, amused as he finally scoops up her foot again and slowly slips her foot into the shoe, re-fastening the tiny clasp.

“Well, it’s not glass. But it fits.” Carrie quips, admiring the shoe despite herself.

He sets down her foot and takes the other and she wills herself not to notice how the light tickling of his fingers and his studied reverence are starting to make her feel a pleasant rush of excitement.

“Ah, that metaphor would make me the prince. Or the prince's knave. Your choice."

“As long as I don’t turn into a pumpkin at midnight.”

He smiles and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms across his chest but holding her gaze. “See, that’s the whole problem, Carrie. That happens earlier in the narrative. And, it doesn't happen to Cinderella.”

She chuckles and slowly stands, walking towards the mirror, inches from Quinn. The shoes are beautiful. A little higher than she normally wears, open-toed with one ankle strap.  
  
After a long moment, Quinn calls, “Christina? We’ll take them. And the dress.”

Astonished, Carrie shakes her head, “Quinn, no-” before he stands, inches away from her, and places a single finger on her lips.

“Carrie, shut up and just play Cinderella for once, okay? It's about the greater narrative, remember?”

As Quinn pays, Carrie regards herself in the full length mirror. For a brief moment she thinks there was more in his voice than just an opinion about a dress. A very nice dress. Elegant shoes. She likes what she sees in the mirror. A confident woman with a beautiful dress and a happy smile. And when did that happen? That sense of contentment?

 

The restaurant is on Hudson Street in an art deco building. It's not far, so they walk and it feels natural when she loops her arm through his. They’ve done it before and yet she notices she likes being close and connected.

They sit at a window table. The owner is pleased to see Quinn back - of course he doesn't need a reservation in a packed restaurant on a Friday night - he is a friend, and friends are always welcome.

So they sit in the spacious dining room, overlooking the restaurant’s two levels and open kitchen with its huge tandoori ovens, and Carrie relaxes. She lets Quinn order food and drinks and just enjoys the moment.

Quinn sees her shoulders getting less tense. That's always an issue for her, sometimes to the point of pain, and he often wonders if he should offer her a shoulder massage. But now she leans back, smiles and seems relaxed, happy even. She’s beautiful.

“So, tell me, have you been here before?”

“I told you. It's a client.”

“That's not what I meant. For dinner.”

“Avtar always fed me well when I was here during my contract.”

He knows it's not what she wants to know and raises his martini towards her.

“To literature.”

“To my friend Quinn, an asshole editor.”

But she smiles.

“About being here before… that's not what I meant. Have you been here for dinner?”

“Sometimes I work late, yes. So sometimes they invite me for the staff dinner in the kitchen.”

“So you’ve never been a customer?”

“No. I wanted to come here with you though.”

That hits her by surprise, he can see that.

“To show you real Indian cuisine instead of take-out,” he adds, treading carefully now. They usually don't go out for dinner together and they both know it. Take out on the couch or dinners at her place with Franny, that's what they do.

“So where do you take your dates? Assuming you take them out.”

“It's not them.”

“But you do date? Because you should, I mean, why shouldn't you, seeing someone is great and-”

“Are you seeing someone?”

“Not for a while.”

“Why not? Because you should, I mean, why shouldn't you? seeing someone is great and-” he says, mocking her.

“Stop it,” but she laughs and that's what he wanted, “my life's busy and I have Franny. And my job. And you. So if I need someone to rave about my work or to take me out to fancy Indian restaurants, I’m covered. And you, Quinn, you make great martinis and you always buy my favorite tequila.”

Their food arrives and it's one of the best dinners Carrie's ever had. It's tasty, yes, but Quinn is… different. Less restrained, more relaxed. They talk. They laugh. They drink wine. He has a whisky when she opts for coffee.

It had been a long time since she’d been on a proper date and it felt good to be the center of Quinn’s attention and care. She always knew he had an old fashioned sense of chivalry but it still amazed her when he got up and adjusted her chair when she returned from the bathroom and refilled her glass and looked at her like he really liked her.

She'd seen want in the eyes of men, sometimes masked, sometimes not so much, but this… affection and… maybe something else… she hadn’t known this for a long time.

They stayed long. They talked and had another drink and even dessert.  
  
“We’ve never had dessert before.”

“No. We haven’t.”

“I didn't know you even like dessert.”

“You never asked.”

“I am now. What do you like?”

You.

“Depends what's offered.”

He’s not talking about food and she knows it, because he already has a mango kulfi in front of him - she has tamarind - and a plate with coconut burfi sits in the middle of the table. He insisted on trying all three.

“Depends on what you ask for, I guess.”

“Never felt like I had a say in the… menu.”

“Never felt like you wanted to have a say.”

He takes one of the bite-sized cubes covered with shredded coconut and raises his hand towards her mouth. Carrie obediently parts her lips when he presses the sweet treat against her lower lip and is the first to lower her eyes. But she feels the tip of his index finger pressing against her lip a second longer as she swallows.

They walk back to his place, both thinking the physical closeness a taxi ride would cause might be too much to handle.

He did not suggest walking her to her home and neither is she.

But when they find their way to his place there is a moment of awkward silence before he offers her a nightcap.

She accepts a sip of his favorite whisky, kicks her heels into his hallway and sits on the couch, legs curled. The notebook is still on the coffee table and Carrie briefly thinks back to what they did on this couch a few hours earlier, how his hands…

He sips his whisky nodding towards her notebook.

"Let me see the last page. Let’s finish this piece of art."

"No."

"Why not? C'mon. It can't get any worse."

"You are a self-righteous shithead."

"I like it when you call me names."

"I know. That's why you put up with me."

It’s a remarkable insight for Carrie, implying that she knows she is impossible at times.

"C'mon. Let me see. We came this far. Let’s give them a sweet ending, make them fall asleep and it’s a done deal."

"They don't fall asleep on that page."

"What else is left?"

He's too exhausted to be cautious and damns his fate when he turns the page.

_Quinn handcuffed her to the bed and she squealed with delight and then he drove into her like a freight train. And she called 'argh. You are such a naughty boy. Don't hurt me.' And then she came with the force of the said freight train._

Facepalm. Another sip of his drink.

Time for a lesson in the art of bondage.

"God. Carrie. That's..." Quinn doesn't know whether to laugh or to cry. Will it never end? But Carrie's having none of it.

"I know, it's not the right moment in the story. Maybe an epilogue, to show their progress, like a day later. Or earlier in the story. But that would require some rewriting."

"Carrie. Stop. Freight Train?"

"Train passion. Yes."

"Two freight trains, apparently."

"We can tinker a bit with the words. One can be a speed train. Or, for her orgasm we could use an electricity metaphor. Those work great according to my book. Like… her climax struck her like lightning."

"Sure."

"Don't go all monosyllabic. We just need to add one or two words and it's done."

"Did you ever let that happen?"

That catches her by surprise, he can see it from the faint pink blush spreading across her cleavage.

"Sure. Plenty of times."

"Names."

"What? No. I'm not giving you names."

"Plenty of times. Right."

He just looks at her and she unravels. He does not quite know it but Carrie Mathison is a woman of flesh and blood and with a heart. She can't hide when he looks at her like this. There are days when she remembers the unspoken letter during those long glances.

"Fuck. Quinn. Fine. Of course not."

It's not that he didn't know she has major trust issues. Everything else would have been a surprise.

"So?"

"So?" she says mimicking his amused and frustrated tone tone surprisingly well. "What? You've done it plenty of times, I’m sure. Hordes of women begging you to tie them up. Because you’ve had so many great relationships defined by deep trust. Or wait - maybe you're the one who likes to get cuffed and blindfolded. Confess. Now."

She's almost jumping out of her chair like a little girl and he wonders - not for the first time that night - if she’s taken her meds.

"I'm not confessing anything. Get up."

"What?"

"Get up."

She's reluctant but she gets up.

Big mistake. Three whiskies don't kill any Black-Ops skills, she learns that quickly, because he turns her around and presses her against the wall before she even realizes he's making a step towards her.

She feels his breath against the back of neck and his hand gently squeezes her shoulder.

"See. That's what it feels like. Not exactly sexy, right? To make that work in your fic you'll have to add tons of chapters of relationship stuff. Growing intimacy. Or you make it a full bondage scene because that's what turns her on. But that would require some work too. Your choice."

"What if we assume for a moment that they have known each other for a long time?"

"No freight train then."

"No?"

"No."

"A speed train?"

She feels him breathing a laugh, his hand still on her shoulder.

"More a regional train with a lot of stops."

"You think the train analogy works?"

"Not really."

"Could you write it?" she asks, genuinely curious.

"Not sure. It's not my usual style. Writing style."

“Yeah, you like light imagery - darkness and glimmer crap, as I recall.”

His hand briefly tightens on her shoulder and for a second she fears that he might let go, or put her into a headlock. Instead he lowers his lips to just above her ear and whispers, “don’t kill the mood, Mathison. We’re talking about your writing style.”

"Sure. Writing style. Always good to expand your style. Writing style."

"You'd read it?"

"I think I would."

"You really wanna know, hmm?"  
  
His index finger trails along the long zipper of her dress, coming to rest at at the small of her back. He can see how tense her shoulders are.

"It's not gonna work that way. Stay here. Don’t move."

His hand leaves her back and he walks over to his desk and grabs a pair of keys and something else.

"How did that feel?" he asks her while opening the handcuffs and rubbing her wrists.

"Strange." She's refuses to feign surprise that he has… she finds it… strangely exciting… the thought that he actually could… but it was strange. Yes, strange.

"See. Believe me, Carrie, there's no way you'd allow your next best fuck buddy to tie you to the bed frame."

"We need to write it."

"Carrie, forget about it. This is just not you."

"Fuck, Quinn," she bursts out, "this is what the whole assignment is about. That scene - this scene - whatever. Because it’s all that ‘building trust’ fucked up crap that the life coach can't get enough of. That’s what he says I need to work on!"

He's incredulous.

"Carrie. Five pages of smut from hell - and this is what it's all about?"

"How many people do you have in your life that you trust, Mister smarty pants, huh?"

"I'm fine. And I am not the one who is seeing a life coach."

"How many?"

"Two."

She is not asking for names. Otherwise she'd learn she's one of those two with Rob being the other one.

"Same here."

"I assume you can't ask the other one to help you with this assignment?"

"Fuck. Certainly not my sister. So if you back out I'm down to zero."

His expression alone is worth the whole damn assignment she decides there and then, realization dawning. His mouth opens a for a tiny moment and then closes again.

"Quinn. Pretty please. I have to write it. We’ve come this far."

"Yeah. We have."

"Can you write it? Please. Pretty please."

"Me? So suddenly she ties him to the bed? How drunk does he have to be to let that happen? And then he's too shitfaced to get any action? That's ridiculous and you know it."

"Well, you never did it. Gotcha."

She's made a point and she's proud of herself.

Now comes the hardest part of her improvised plan. She has had the idea at the back of her mind for awhile, and this evening might be the perfect opportunity. I mean, hell, they've been talking about sex for hours now, she thinks. They even went for dinner, he bought her that nice dress, they had a sexy fun conversation over dinner, they kissed - and let’s forget THE LETTER. The fucking darkest, most romantic letter of all time.

"So, you haven’t done it and I haven’t done it," Carrie says.

Quinn is hardly keeping up with the sudden mood change. Carrie is too well behaved and all smiles. "So we have a real problem. I might just need to go and tell Adrian I didn't do my homework. Maybe he'll have other ideas to work on… my trust issues… because you are such a pussy."

It's the sweetest smile he’s ever gotten from her, and she adds a head tilt and even puts a strand of her hair behind her ear, exposing the curve of her neck, and all Quinn sees is Aidan or Adam or Adrian bending down and kissing and licking the soft skin there and the next image his helpful brain supplies is Carrie tied to a cheap bed frame and that guy playing fucking freight train.

Carrie is back against the wall, face forward, before she's counted to three. Quinn's right arm presses her into the wall while his left hand holding both her wrists behind her back. He's so close that she feels the heat radiating from his body behind her and smells the faint scent of the whisky. But he's not hurting her.

"So you really wanna know how it is?"

"For my art, yes."

"Sure. For your art."

She feels his hand on her back zipper again but this time it's not just an elusive touch but the sound and rustling of a dress being opened. When she tries to move he uses his hipbone against her ass to keep her in place.

"One condition. Two actually." He can't believe this is happening, maybe it’s the whisky, "no naughty boy plays-"

"Guys like those."

"I don't."

"Number two?" Carrie asks.

"No taking notes. You'll have to memorize and write it down later."

After what?

Carrie nods, suddenly not sure about her voice is stable at all.

Her dress goes down to the floor as Quinn releases her wrists for a second, then he snaps the handcuffs around her wrists and positions her back against the wall, facing away from him.

He leans in and she feels him breathing above her ear, ghosting a kiss on her temple and the tips of his fingers running down her spine.

"Relax," and only Quinn can master that balance between pleading and commanding, "I want you to relax."

Which is easier than it sounds as he very well knows.

His mouth comes down on her neck now, leaving a trail of soft kisses and he caresses her shoulder. It occurs to her that she's not sure if he's soothing her, or not interested in more, or just as nervous as she is.

She has her answer a moment later when he turns her and kisses her again, tentative and tender, and pulls her closer. There's a bulge against her hip that speaks volumes.

He breaks the kiss after a moment and presses her harder against the wall, her hands now between her back and the rough brick stones of his New York hipster apartment.

"Close your eyes."

"Quinn," she protests.

"This is beginners' stuff, Carrie."

"Sure, me half naked with my hands cuffed behind my back is beginners' stuff? Anything else? How about you at least open your shirt?"

"You can't make me."

"Of course I can," and she raises her arms, only she can't, and tries to move, loses her balance and wants to catch her fall but she can't because her arms are stuck - and then he has her. Arms around her shoulders and her waist. He catches her and puts her back on her feet.

"No. You can't. It's a power play. So, no you can't."

"Fine. Then I'll get dressed again and - fuck."

Now it's his time to smile while he slowly detaches.

"Kinda difficult with cuffed hands."

"Don't make fun of me." There's a type of vulnerability in her voice he’s never heard before, although the way she looks at him doesn't show any at all.

So he closes the distance between them and brushes a hand over her shoulder, amazed when she leans in.

Carrie has never been to his bedroom. No woman has ever set foot there. Actually Carrie is the only woman who visits his home, he never brings Laura here.

But when he bends down and kisses her again he slowly moves her along the short hallway, past the front door and he nearly trips over her shoes, she always just kicks them off, and even if the kiss is rather chaste it's nearly blowing his mind because this is Carrie, half-naked, hands cuffed, kissing him.

She breaks away when the back of her knees touch the mattress.

"Quinn. Stop. Stop."

Of course he stops.

"Sorry. Carrie. I-"

"If you shove me backwards on your bed now my shoulders will hurt. There must be another way."

"Ehm. Yes. Sure. Of course."

"My guidebook didn't go there."

"Well, as I see it there are two ways," it's hard to concentrate, "maybe three."

"Tell me. We can decide then."

"One - the guy doesn't care about your shoulders and just pushes you back."

"Very alpha."

"Yeah, very freight train."

"And two?"

"He turns you around and you're face down."

"Hm."

"Requires a lot of trust though. Your fictional Carrie - would she allow that? You said they don't go way back."

"Probably not."

"Well. That leaves the third way."

"Do tell."

"It's difficult."

"Why?"

"Cause the guy should be better prepared. Like having the keys with him and not forgetting them in the kitchen. Could kind of kill the mood."

"We are rehearsing. That's okay. I mean, in my story, when we write it down we can skip that part."

"Sure."

"So? Are you getting the keys now?"

He does, gulping some whiskey along the way.

She still stands next to his bed when he comes back. He knows she's been looking around. But there's nothing to see. It's just a bedroom, with a queen sized metal bed frame and a walk in closet. No pictures, no books, no decorations. At least he has a coverlet and sheets and not just a sleeping bag.

"So? What's the third way?"

"He'd open the handcuffs, ask her to lie down and ask her if she really wants it. At least I think that is what he should do. He didn't do that in your fic which is a violation of bondage rules, I’m fairly sure."

"But she really wants it."

"But he has no way of knowing that. And as much as he wants it he should make sure there’s consent."

"Well, okay. She’s consents. What then?"

Quinn doesn't look into her eyes which is strange because she's so used to his open and direct glances by now but he moves around and opens the cuffs. Turning her to face him he takes her right wrist in both hands and gently rubs it with his thumbs. Raising it to his mouth he kisses her pulse, almost reverently, she thinks if it wasn’t such a non-Quinn thing to do.

"Lie down. Stretch your arms over your head," he instructs her and she hadn't even noticed the second pair of handcuffs before, but now both her wrists are cuffed to the bed frame and she inhales sharply.

"Quinn."

He stretches himself next to her, propped up on his elbow.

"No freight train then, huh?"

"No. Maybe not."

That's the clearest declaration of defeat he’s ever gotten from Carrie.

He cups her cheek and slowly moves his hand down, along her neck to her clavicle.

"Close your eyes."

"Quinn. I-"

He leans in and kisses her, just a soft kiss, open-eyed.

"Just say stop and I'll stop," he whispers, a bit hoarsely, "you know that."

"I know."

And then she closes her eyes.

His touch his light, he deliberately keeps it that way, just one hand gently caresses her shoulder, collarbone and neck.

He sees Carrie's chest moving as she's trying to calm her breathing and then her eyes flutter open again.

"Stop tickling me."

"I'm not tickling you."

"You are. The tickled person gets to decide that. You can unintentionally tickle me."

"Sorry."

"Firmer touch. Like this - ouch." She has tried to raise her arm and the sudden pull hurts her wrist.

"How do people do this when they just hook up?"

"That's the whole point Carrie. They don't do it when they just hook up. Knowing more about - preferences...helps."

"We can skip that part. The writer has rights too. We're just rehearsing and then I'll write down the good parts."

"Sure."

"Quinn."

"What?"

"Will you please touch me again? The girl won't get her time in paradise just because he's staring at her."

Quinn keeps staring for a moment longer though, his brain not capable to keep up with the turn of events.

"Quinn?" she says in a very Carrie-annoyed tone.

"Yes. What?"

"Firmer touch."

"Sure. Whatever you need. It's gonna be a hell of a story. All that dirty talking."

"Hey, Quinn, that is the first idea YOU have added to my story. Dirty talking, we should absolutely-"

"Carrie. Shut up."

"Well, then start entertaining me."

His hand is still on her shoulder and he starts moving again, firmer now, along her arm.

"Carrie," he exhales, "would you please close your eyes?"

"No. I need to see what you are doing to be able to write it."

"This is about feeling not about watching. Or, you know what, I can download you some nice porn, you watch that and write it down."

"But that wouldn't be me overcoming my -", and then she bites her lip and shuts up. Interesting. His hand moves along her arm again.

"Quinn. Sorry to interrupt. The tickling stopped which is good. But handcuffs just for an arm massage? I mean it's nice, sure, but -"

Quinn's out of his bed, in his closet, grabs one of his two ties, and is back next to her in a mere seconds.

"You know what? My guidebook says a blindfold goes along with handcuffs. Because it is about loss of autonomy and trust. Stop wiggling."

Carrie indeed stops wiggling but manages to quip a slightly unsettled "Quinn, since when do you wear a tie?"

"When I see my model client. She likes it. And it comes in handy as a blindfold, don't you think?"

"It'll crease."

"Don't worry, I have two."

His hands are deft and efficient, well, what did she expect?

"Really, Quinn, two ties? You’re over forty, spring for a third."

Classic Carrie, still trying to gain the upper hand when she clearly won't get it back any time soon.

"I had no complaints."

She's silent now. And stops wiggling.

"What do you think would happen in your story now?"

"The guy should have a plan. He’s tied her to his bed and blindfolded her - would be a hell of a disappointment if he just walks away now."

"The walls are thin, the neighbors would hear her and probably come for help if she calls for help."

"That wouldn't be a trust building scene. It would be a major fuck off."

She manages to sound amused but he hears the underlying insecurity.

God, Carrie tied to his bed, waiting for him to -

"Does he have a plan?"

"You are the writer. You told me earlier that I'm just a stand in, like a prop. So what is his plan? What do you want him to do?"

"You said you'd help me."

"Yeah," he bends over her and she can feel his breath on her neck and then she thinks he's very close to her mouth but she's not sure because she can't see him, "I said that. I think he would kiss her and hope she's still on board."

"He'll find out soon enough. Cause if she's not he'll have two knees in his crotch before he can spell his name."

"A bit late I'd say. Cause he has the keys. Golden rule of bondage Carrie: if you don't want it say it early," but his voice his still soft, she thinks she hears a hint of amusement and maybe something else and his mouth is just millimeters away from hers, and she knows he wants her to close the distance. But she doesn't.

"So consider her persuaded. Would he kiss her?"

"He certainly would."

And that's what he does. Just a kiss, much too brief for Carrie's preferences and when she hopes he might deepen it he breaks away. She doesn't know what will happen next, and knows that this is the point.

Quinn’s eyes drink her in, thinking he should probably feel ashamed but she can't see anything so he can stare now, trace her curves with his gaze before he touches her.

He puts a finger on her neck, feeling her pulse drumming under the delicate pale skin and slowly traces her carotid artery as her pulse jumps to an even higher pace. He sees her nipples tightening under the thin fabric of her bra and needs a moment to control his own breathing.

Carrie feels him bending over her again, anticipates the kiss a fraction of a second before he's with her and this time he doesn't pull away but stays with her, lips exploring and probing, his tongue parting her lips, his hands slowly mapping and caressing her body, a finger circling her navel, a large hand roaming along her ribcage, his breath hot on her neck, his mouth and tongue kissing and tracing her neck, along her collarbone, tantalizing close, so close, she tries to arch her back but a strong arm presses her back into the sheets and he kisses her again, deep and with a deliberately restrained pace.

"Do you trust me?"

There's no teasing tone in his voice and the answer he gets is an honest one.

She nods.

"I want you to say it. Please."

"I trust you."

"Good. Because I don't want to stop now. But I need you to tell me to go on."

"Quinn. Please."

It could be both. Please stop. Or please go on. And it's not enough.

"Please what? I need more Carrie."

"Please," she exhales, "don't stop."

She gasps when his hand covers her breast. It feels incredible. His hand is large and warm and he keeps it still and kisses her again and it's driving mad that he knows exactly what he's doing with this slow seduction. She feels that she’s already embarrassingly wet, yet he hasn’t done much. But it’s the mere thought of what he could do that’s arousing as hell. She tastes the whisky on his tongue, smells his cologne and his own smell, his stubble grating along the soft skin of her neck and she almost shivers with anticipation when he moves his hands to the small metal clasp of her bra and opens it with a soft click. She feels him moving a bit away from her and she doesn't like that, she wants him to stay close, wants to feel his mouth on her skin and wants him to keep caressing and fondling her and it doesn't even tickle anymore, the thought of Quinn being capable of such a tender and delicate touch, of being restrained while he's exploring and cherishing her body - that thought makes her desperate for him.

Quinn takes a moment to steady his breath, sits back on his heels and slowly moves his hands under the cups of her bra, watches her shivering and arching her back as his hands brush over her nipples, her arms pulling at the cuffs, and then he finally eases the cups away to expose her breasts.

Her nipples are already tightened and have a lighter colour than he expected and he feels slightly ashamed at the memory of the many nights in which he pictured a lot of activities which included her breasts… and more.

Following a sudden urge he leans in, poises over her and starts sucking her nipple without any further warning, gentle at first and then increasingly harder. 

Carrie lets out a sharp hiss and then starts to make soft sounds, moaning and whimpering and when he starts kneading the other breast with his free hand the sounds come rapidly and louder. He doesn't stop licking and sucking, teasing her with his tongue, adds soft nibbles and a few harder bites and the sounds she's making are nearly his undoing.

She tries to wrap a leg around him to pull him closer, tries to bring her hip against his crotch, moans his name and swears to God but he doesn't let her, just keeps pleasing and worshiping her.

She's a beautiful woman. But now he's allowed to look, at least for one night.

Leaving her breasts with a sigh, he pins her between his elbows and kisses her, possessive, deep, his tongue invading her mouth as he lowers himself on her body and one hand goes under her ass to press her upwards into him.

He allows her to raise her legs and when she presses him against her crotch and starts rocking her hips it's his time to gasp.

"You are beautiful, so fucking beautiful. Just say stop and I'll stop. But I'd like for you not to. I want you, Carrie. I want to make you come. I want you to be mine and come for me." His voice is a hoarse whisper in her ear and if he tore her panties down right now and entered her immediately she wouldn't say no, because she wants this, and she wants him.

But despite the stark presentation of his own desire he wouldn't grant her easy satisfaction, she's aware of that.

She tries to raise her arms again, wants to touch him and she feels him chuckle as he breathes a laugh in her ear.

"No, Carrie. We're not there yet."

And with that she feels him moving away from her, he's back to sitting on his heels, and then she feels his hands closing around one calf, slowly moving upwards, a soft touch, his fingers are calloused and she opens her legs for him but he won't go above her knees, just caresses her legs and ankles and when she thinks she can't stand the slow pace a second longer she feels his hands on her thighs briefly before he moves around and lays next to her, grabbing the soft flesh of her buttocks, turning her a bit, kneading her ass, his mouth against her ear now again, his breathing ragged and she loves that she can do this to him, that just giving arouses him so much.

His hands are under the delicate fabric of her underwear now.

"May I?" he’s barely audible, and she nods, not trusting her own voice.

He pulls her underwear down her legs and they’re gone with a swift movement and then he's back, next to her, caressing her body, first long strokes up and down her arms, her rib cage, her back, before his hands find her ass, while his mouth travels down her neck, nipping, kissing, licking and then he hesitates for a tiny second before she feels a single finger grazing along her entrance, almost hesitating and soft.

She arches her back, turns her head, exposing her neck, and he sees her biting her lower lip as he slowly eases in.

She feels like she’s on fire, she’s so desperate for him.

"Undress, Quinn. I want to feel you."

"Not now. We're not there yet."  
  
It’s is a power play and she loves it.

He's slowly introducing his finger, adds a second one and all Carrie can do is give herself over to the pleasure he's giving her. She starts making those sounds when he moves his fingers back and forth, slowly fucking her with his hand, his breath hot on her skin.

"God. Carrie," he's panting, she feels him rock hard against hip, "What are you doing to me? Please. Let me do this for you."

His lips brush over her ear and she feels his teeth tugging at her earlobe and dissolves into pleasure. She feels his mouth over hers, pausing when he's barely touching hers, leaving it to her to close the distance. She kisses him, hard, and sucks in his tongue, making him gasp and press himself tighter into her side. He wants her, desperately, but he wants to see her even more. And so he pulls away, breaks the kiss. It's an enormous effort and he should just get out off his clothes and fuck her senseless but instead his thumb finds her clit, laps it, slow circles and she's writhing and the sounds she's making...and then he presses harder, his fingers stay deep, his thumb rubs and she tenses, her whimper is almost a scream, she throws her head back and he feels her clenching around his fingers.

Carrie hears herself crying out his name when he takes her over the edge. A violent pleasure tears through her, her body bucks and jumps as her orgasm radiates through her and she feels him holding her, feels his fingers plunging deeper, staying with her, shattering her last boundaries and his thumb presses again and she doesn't want this to stop, doesn't want him to stop.

Her lips are slightly parted and she moans at each of his finger thrusts and suddenly he can't wait a second longer. She's his, gave herself to him and he wants to take her now, needs to have her, possess her body, mind and soul.

Staying with her a moment longer, he clutches her tight, aware of the strain that causes for her arms, he feels her shivering once more, feels a soft sheen of sweat, kisses her neck, she tastes a little salty now, and then he kisses her mouth, feels the last surges, she's tightening once more around his fingers and then she finally stills, her slender body in his arms, her arms still stretched above her head, utterly helpless and yet he's at her mercy.

"Wait a second," he whispers and kisses her again, carefully now.

He releases her and gently lets her sink back into the pillow before he raises and undresses, noticing his knees are unsteady.

Carrie hears the sound of rustling fabric, knows he's finally undressing and wants to look at him but he's not granting her that. Not yet. But he's back with her a few moments later, his bare skin touching hers as he cradles her and kisses her again. God, she wants him so much.

She feels him stretching his arms and raising his head and then a moment later he's opened the cuffs, her hands are free to move. Quinn takes them and rubs her palms with his thumbs and then expands his massage along her arms while he places a soft kiss on both her wrists.

"Did I hurt you?" he whispers.

"No. I liked it."

"One doesn't necessarily exclude the other."

"True."

Her hands are numb and he holds and kisses her while the sensation slowly comes back, caresses her back and ass, she feels how much he wants her, and yet he's so restrained and so patient. He doesn't untie the blindfold before she starts to stroke his back.

"Quinn," his hands are at the back of her head searching for the knot, "you don't have to take it away."

"No Carrie, we are taking it away. Cause if we take this any further I want you to look at me and see me."

So he removes the tie, slowly, and looks at her. She sees the unspoken question in his eyes as she cups his cheek and leans in for another kiss.

"I want you," she breathes before her lips touch his and she brings herself closer to him, her arms around his shoulders, her torso pressing against his chest, her hands slowly roaming up and down his back. She kisses him open-mouthed, with a languorous pace, her tongue slowly invading his mouth, swirling around his tongue, sucking and biting his lower lip as her hands explore his body. She knows he wants to pin her to the mattress but now she'll take her time. And that's what she tells him when she breaks the kiss and looks at him.

"My turn now Quinn. I won't tie you up," he exhales a soft laugh but finds the thought strangely arousing, "but it's your turn for some patience now."

Splaying her hands on his chest, she nudges him to lay back, she's poised over him, her eyes shining bright in the dim light of his bedroom.

Her hands and mouth explore his body, his breathing and moans guiding her. Several times she comes close to his cock, tantalizing close, he feels her hands on his ass, her mouth nuzzling his neck, kissing him, whispering, smiling. Finally, her hand touches his cock briefly, then again, encircling or palming him but always just an elusive touch, teasing and promising. But whenever he tries to pull her close she refuses with a smile. And so he gives in, surprised by her devotion and knocked over by her passion and affection.

She's splayed on top of him, kissing him, and he gets a tantalizing moment of friction before she breaks the kiss and looks down at him, her pupils dilated and the blue of her eyes barely visible. She's a mess, her hair's tousled, her lips swollen, but her smile is radiant.

"Close your eyes, Quinn, I want you to feel."

He obeys, of course he does, and feels her slipping next to him, he wants to kiss her again, wants to grab her gorgeous ass but then feels her mouth on his chest, kissing and licking her way south. He's shaking with anticipation, knows she notices when she breathes a laugh and then she uses her hands to steady his hips and takes him in her mouth. He's engulfed in her warm wet mouth and she closes her lips around him and goes slowly down, taking him all in. It feels mind boggling incredible. She senses him opening his eyes and watching her so her eyes fly up to him, making eye contact as she slowly starts using her hands and lips to please him. She adds a swirling tongue and he lets a strangled groan, the slow pace is torture and she knows it. She holds the eye contact and it's the hottest thing he's ever seen, Carrie's mouth around his hardon, hollowed cheeks, going down deep, slowly building a cadence while looking right into his eyes. God. His hand is at the back of her head now, his fingers entangled in her hair, no pressure, and she feels his body tense, holding back.

But his ragged breathing and strangled moans he's making give him away and she loves that she can do this to him and that he letting her. Carrie knows she can't extend this forever and so she goes down on him one last time, carefully adding grating teeth when she slowly pulls up again.

It's almost his undoing.

"God. Carrie," he's a brain- and boneless mess, desperately trying to hold back, "this is, fuck, Carrie."

And before she knows it he grabs her arms, pulls her up, and turns her around with one swift movement, she's pinned on her back now, feels him hard against her thigh, his mouth comes down on hers and he kisses her, hard and demanding.

"I want to fuck you Carrie. As much as I'd like to come in your mouth, first I want you."

His voice is low, barely controlled, in her fantasies she’s often mused about how it would be and now she has her answer, she never felt so desired and wanted before.

She opens and stretches her legs as he positions himself and slowly enters her, she knows he's restraining himself for a reason, his eyes never leaving hers. He takes her, slowly, making it last, she wants him to fuck her faster but he's possessing her now and there's nothing she can do about it. And it's exactly what she wants.

She feels incredible - slick and tight. Fucking Carrie with his eyes locked with hers, knowing she's his, right now she's his, completely. It’s all he can do to not come immediately, despite his slow pace. He's deep now, filling and stretching her, his eyes still holding her gaze.

When he starts thrusting, it's long and hard strokes, and seeing Quinn unraveling is taking her there too. He's fucking her now and there's no holding back anymore, his mouth is possessing hers, kissing her deeply, moaning into her mouth, she knows it's gonna be intense and raises her legs around his hips and tilts her hips upwards to meet his cadence.

He feels his orgasm building up at the base of his spine, a force, and when she starts to make those whimpers again and buries her heels into his ass he slams into her, hard and deep and brings his hand between them, he wants her to go with him, he wants to hear her cry his name, and she does, she cries, his release is intense, a flood as he fills her with his cum, feels himself exploding into her, his ass bucks, a few more thrusts, and she's there too and she does it again, whimpers his name and he can't stop, his vision his fading to black, it's so fucking good because it's her and she's writhing and shivering beneath him as he collapses on top of her, and stills every movement with his bulk.

He's heavy. Warm and sweaty, she can smell his scent and their sex and tastes his skin as she kisses his shoulder with her mouth opened.

Quinn's still inside her, pushing into her every now and then, much more gentle now and it gives her a another pleasant shiver. When he eventually pulls out of her with a groan he envelopes her in his arms and turns them around, holding her tight to his body so she comes to rest with her head on his chest.

Arms and legs entwined, she's pliant and soft in his arms and he buries his nose in her hair.

It's a sacred stillness, that moment before the awkwardness creeps in and will make them drift apart, she thinks.

He doesn't want to think about the aftermath, he wants to simply enjoy her proximity a few minutes longer as they slowly descend.

She's snuggled into him, her arm limp across his chest, her hand is searching and finding his and he softly fondles her shoulder every now and then.

He wonders if there's anything he can say to keep her from running away and to save their friendship. But how can he regret what he’s wanted for years? She's warm and soft in his arm as he presses a kiss on her forehead.

She hears his rapid heartbeat slowing over the next minutes as his breathing calms while he holds her tight and keeps caressing her. She wonders if he'll ask her to leave or if they can return to the easy banter which is their usual currency. She needs a shower and she'd like to have it with him, to lean into him while the warm spray washes over them, and then she'd like to spend the rest of the night, exactly like this, in his arms. She's too tired to feel scared. This is Quinn. There’s need to feel scared.

She's still there, not moving, just her thumb brushing over his every now and then. He knows he has to try because he'll regret it forever if he doesn't.

"Hey. You said the nanny is staying all night. You wanna stay? Cause I don't know about you but somehow I don't feel up to walking you home."

She stirs, feeling like it’s an exodus from paradise. She doesn't want to go back to conscious thinking.

"If I can use your shower."

"Sure."

"Where do I find a towel?"

"Wait."

Reluctantly he disentangles his arms and legs and rises, avoiding eye contact but squeezing her hand once more. She gets up too and follows him down the small hallway to the bathroom, knowing all too well that he keeps the towels in the small cabinet there. His ass is gorgeous, she can't help but notice.

He turns around to hand her the towel and it's the first time he looks at her since they… God. She wonders if he'll give her the ‘it was great but shouldn't have happened’ speech or make fun of her writing but he just gives her a small smile and cups her cheek for a second, hesitates, and then lets go of her, ready to step back.

"Quinn. You know what they say. Save water, save the planet?" and she tilts her head towards the shower.

It's beautiful to see the smile returning to his eyes.

"Sure. Let’s save the world.”

She leans into him the moment he starts the water running and he wraps his arms around her as the hot water runs down their bodies and washes away what's left of their lovemaking. She looks up to him and pulls him in for a kiss first, and why would he resist? It's not like the rejection will hurt more just because they do it once more. And he knows that this is where they are heading the moment their lips lock.

Her body is slick as his hands roam over her and she moans when he cups her breasts allowing his instinct to take over and he soon turns her around. She takes the cue and supports herself against the wall as he holds her hips and enters her from behind. He cups her breasts as he's pushing into her, slow and deliberate, each stroke rewarded by a sweet moan as she starts pushing her hips back to meet his thrusts.

God, what this woman does to him.

He's there soon, takes her with him with adding rapid laps with his index finger around her clit, his mouth open at the back of her neck, tasting her while consuming her as they come together.

He wraps an arm around her waist when he pulls out, pressing her against his chest, and holds her there while he reaches for the shower head and gives it to her so she can wash his semen away.  
  
She turns around when he attaches the shower back to the slide bar and pulls him in for a kiss, soft and gentle, but lingering and he sighs when her tongue parts his lips and touches his while her hands caress his back and ass.

"I should text the nanny," she murmurs against his mouth and his short-circuited brain has problems keeping up with her, and it takes him a moment to connect the dots, but then he stops the water, grabs the towel, wraps her into it and scoops her into his arms.

"I'll do that."

He carries her back to his bed, she is laughing, a real laugh with mirth, he loves those, and when he lowers her to the bed she says, "hurry up."

He makes a detour to the bathroom, wrapping a towel around his hips and then goes to the living room to search for his phone.

Her notebook lies on the floor. He picks it up to put it back on the table and sees that the very last page has a few lines written on it. He doubts they belong to her story but can't resist having a quick peek.

_And maybe she should just tell him she read the letter years ago. That her answer was a yes. And that she still thinks they would be great together because they are already great together. And that she trusts him. But what if that will ruin everything? But she thinks he centers her and he's home to her and she loves him and wants to be with him. And sometimes she thinks he feels the same. That she could be good for him. So maybe she should muster all the courage she has and tell him. Or show him. Without a coffee machine._

He manages to type a message to Franny's nanny, something about a late movie and Carrie sleeping at a friend's place, takes a pen and scribbles down two lines, and then he's back with her.

She's wearing his t-shirt and looks sweetly sleepy but sits propped up against a pillow, waiting for him.

He takes a second to take her in, wonders if this is how it's gonna be, and then slips under the cover next to her.

She puts her head on his shoulder when he pulls her in as his arm wraps around her.

"How about you cancel your life coach and add a few hours to your nanny's contract?"

"That's exactly what I was thinking."

"A shame, though, that that piece of literature will never be written."

  
Quinn’s note in Carrie's notebook:  
_The fuck Carrie. Six pages, six years. Yeah, you should have told me sooner. But, better late than never. So - and then they lived happily ever after? And, promise to never write again._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In case you wanna read Carrie's full story (working title: smut from hell), here it is...

It was a moment when the planet stopped spinning: they bumped into each other near the coffee machine and the spark flared between them. He quickly engulfed her mouth with his lips. Slowly licked the crease until she opened her lips in response. His tongue found its way inside, like it was acting on its own. He probed everything he could reach in this wet warm place. She liked it. After a second of hesitation, he shoved his tongue deeper in her throat.   
“Ah,” she said.   
He took a break to kiss her cheek, nose and eye.  
Half of her face was wet with his saliva, and she was sure he will do the same with her neck. She quickly felt aroused.   
“Let's have sex now,” she said.  
“Ok, why not?” he answered, eating her with his eyes. 

She shoved down her pants and underwear quickly, because she couldn't wait any longer. Quinn did the same. His throbbing manhood was impressive and huge and hard. She couldn't help but take him in her palm, appreciating its size and heat, the smooth and velvety surface, and she led by his cock into the bedroom.

She was delighted just by looking at his equipment.

She looked him in the eyes and slowly started sucking his dick, feeling enormous excitement in her lady parts. She was so wet. She hoped he would appreciate her juices when licking her pussy, and maybe he’d find her tasty like honey. Her moist entrance craved him. 

He noticed that she was touching her breasts and took the hint. Tearing off her shirt and her bra with his teeth, he sought greedily for her nipples. She was surprised by his enthusiasm and moaned joyfully when his hands finally touched them. He pinched her hard nipples between his fingers, rubbing them, pulling them out and letting them snap back into place. Carrie almost passed out from pleasure when he twisted them like a safe lock. He knew how to make her open up, she thought, rolling her eyes in the back of her head and seeing stars.

Giving her almost five minutes of his attention, kneading her hungry tits, and occasionally licking her cunt, he couldn't wait any longer and he ordered her to kneel with her elbows on the bed and began to stuff himself into her. She thought he would split her in two with his giant prick.

“Wow,” he said, “I wish I were the one popping your cherry.” And with that he pushed his penis into her and leaned over to kiss her. As he thrust into her vagina her resistance weakened until she shattered completely.

He was drilling her cunt like crazy. She never experienced squirting in her entire sex career, but she thought that it had been the night when it might happen for the first time. He would love it, she thought, her present to him, a gift of pure passion. 

She was screaming and mumbling, “Quinn, oh, Quinn,” in complete ecstasy as he slammed into her like a jackhammer. Together they came while Carrie was still trapped in a string of orgasms. They cried out together, holding onto one and other as the pleasure fell back down to a more manageable level.

But right away she knew it wasn't enough. He wasn't done with her yet. He was still hard and before she could catch her breath he urged her to stand up and pinned her wrists above her head, and in a heartbeat she was speared on his throbbing member, utterly helpless, and he greedily massaged her breasts - a thing that had quickly become his unhealthy obsession. Carrie was going to come again and she informed Quinn about it. It never took her long to get over the edge. Soon he was there too, shooting inside of her, while her vaginal muscles were spasming around his shaft. 

They fell down on the bed. He looked at her with desire and she immediately took his best part into her mouth. He moaned with unbearable pleasure when she sucked him with all the intensity she could muster. He didn't allow her to go on, putting her down on her back and entering her with one passionate stroke. Her pussy was amazing, even better than her mouth, scorching hot and slick and tight. He hooked his arms under her knees, pushing them back until her pretty bare feet were above her shoulders. She clung to him as he slammed into her cunt, wailing in her pleasure, his moans and growls mixing with her beautiful noise. She was always loud in bed and he loved it. She came three times already and was about to do it once more when he exploded into her with the enormous power. She blacked out for a moment, because her orgasm hit her unexpectedly and was of an intensity she never experienced before. 

“It is the most romantic thing that has ever happened to me,” Carrie said.

“Agree,” Quinn said, “now we have to deal with your trust issues. It's important.”  
Quinn handcuffed her to the bed and she squealed with delight and then he drove into her like a freight train. And she called, 'argh, you are such a naughty boy! Don't hurt me!” And then she came with the force of the said freight train.

The end. 

 

_And maybe she should just tell him she read the letter years ago. That her answer was a yes. And that she still thinks they would be great together because they are already great together. And that she trusts him. But what if that will ruin everything? But she thinks he centers her and she's home with him and she loves him and wants to be with him. And sometimes she thinks he feels the same. So maybe she should muster all the courage she has and tell him. Or show him. Without a coffee machine.  
_

**Author's Note:**

> This fic wouldn't exist without Laure. She created that NYC AU, she prompted this fic, she helped us to structure it and she kept us going to finish it.
> 
> Leblanc once again volunteered as editor - thank you so much!
> 
> It took us long to write this story but we hope it brightens the days after 6.03 a little.
> 
> Let us know what you think.
> 
> And if you look for a place to discuss CQ, you find us here
> 
> http://homelandstuff.livejournal.com
> 
> We are a buzzing community with about 90 members, and have new discussions nearly every day.


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